The Dreams (7 page)

A
donkey carried me through the midst of the fields with monotonous steps, stripped of any feeling under the rays of the autumn sun. A dog’s barking hailed us, and the donkey halted. I prodded him with my heel and he resumed his gait.

The barking and wailing returned, and I screwed up my vision to scan for the man I was seeking. A woman appeared, surrounded by a pack of dogs. She shouted at them to keep quiet, and they obeyed. I greeted her and said that I had come to meet the shaykh, on the basis of two letters we had exchanged. The woman replied that she was the person ultimately in charge of this matter and that she was able to offer the requested services—just as she was able to annihilate whomever she wished, if she set the dogs upon them.

I answered that I had come in peace, not war, and I wanted work. She motioned toward me, and I came down from the donkey’s back, standing before her in submission. She walked, and I followed, the donkey trailing behind me, with the dogs all around us. She stopped in front of a small building, and the whole procession stopped with her. She commanded me to go inside: I entered, and she said that I should wait within. She warned of the dogs that would show no mercy if I ventured outside. I asked her how long
I would have to comply—and what about my job? The shaykh, I pointed out, had promised me a good turn. She paid no heed to what I said, but mounted the donkey and rode away, leaving the dogs encircling my prison.

She has been sending me the things I need through tough-looking men, who never say a word. Sometimes I think of taking on the dogs in a battle of life or death, but hope is triumphant.

And I wait.

M
y old colleague let me know that he was going to work in Yemen. He added there was a rumor that I, too, had been invited to work in Yemen—and urged me to accept it. I promised to think about it without showing any enthusiasm.

Yet in the house where I lived by myself, with only my female dog for company, I began to think about the matter in an unexpected manner. What caused this was my sudden aversion to my dog, after her face had started to change into that of a human being. Before this happened, she was my attractive and amusing canine. But after the confusing transformation, she was no longer my dog—nor was she quite human.

Then instantly I found myself in my office in Yemen, my male private secretary standing in front of me. The heat was intense, so I asked the secretary about the type of weather found in this country. He said that it was warm in winter and very hot the rest of the year—but the building was very tall, and the higher up you went, the more the weather would improve. Indeed, whenever the weather bothered me, I should write a memorandum to the director asking to transfer my office to a higher floor. I felt good after my earlier irritation, and—looking up—the building
seemed so extremely huge, I imagined it actually touched the heavens.

Heads peered out of windows high up—and my heart pounded when I saw they bore the faces of those I loved in my earliest days. I felt an unsurpassable pleasure, praising God that I had accepted the offer to work in Felicitous Yemen.

W
hat had happened to the street, and to the whole quarter? Whatever it was, I didn’t expect anything good from what I saw.

The quarter looked completely decrepit with age. Its splendor gone, garbage was strewn here and there. I came across a laborer, and asked him, “What’s going on?”

“Only God lasts forever,” he said, smiling. “God be praised, all things change.”

I headed for my friend’s residence, expecting that what happened to the quarter would have befallen it, too, or even worse. I wouldn’t deny he was my go-between for getting some medicines I needed from abroad, just as his telephone call could solve the most intractable problems in government offices. I found him depressed and without hope, so I consoled him. “In any case,” I said, “at least you have a profession.”

“The passing days will prove that we are not worse off than anyone else,” he replied derisively.

I asked myself, is there truly anything worse? No sooner had I said this, than a group of young men and women appeared. Each one carried a bag full of things from the apartment—pyjamas and underclothes, alluring ladies’ blouses, cosmetic creams, and perfumed fragrances.

Each one left, carrying his bag.… Each item spoke of what kind of services had been offered in my friend’s flat—as it testified to his decline.

I wondered, is he really doing so well, or is he miserable with humiliation and remorse?

O
n one of the winding lanes of our quarter, I ran into two friends who were brothers: their long absence had saddened me greatly. Speechless for a moment, we threw our arms open wide and grasped each other warmly about the neck, as we recalled the griefs, the joys, and the beautiful nights of our distant past.

The two of them asked to visit my house, so I went with them toward it from a distance of some meters. They scrutinized room after room, laughing a long time, as was their custom, before expressing their regrets at the simplicity of the shelter—while mocking me with their burning, beguiling tongues. They asked what I did for a living. I told them I was a
rabab
player who sang about the travails of life and the betrayals of time, then performed some music for them.

“This is a beggar’s life!” they scolded me—and hence weren’t surpised when weakness and despair showed on my face.

They told me that they had been looking for me for a long time until they found me, and their concern for me had clearly not been misplaced. Yet now, they added, they had brought the good news of my imminent release from this suffering.

I praised God, then asked what this good news could be. They explained that soon I would emigrate with them to the gorgeous place of abundance and plenty. I asked, how could that be possible? They replied that, as I knew, they enjoyed a close connection to influential persons—and nothing good comes to you except through influential persons.

They then took me by the arm and walked me outside, where we met a man whose appearance and manner proclaimed he was someone of importance. He listened to the tale with a neutral expression, before saying that—for me—emigration would entail great dedication and enduring patience. He promised me a positive outcome, however, and my two friends sought to reassure me, as well.

Finally, the man said, “Wait for me at the mosque at the crack of dawn.”

I
n our house in Abbasiya, we were all going to sleep when the voice of my brother’s son awakened me.

“The roof’s on fire!” he shouted.

I arose in terror as my nephew brought a wooden ladder. We put it up in the salon and each of one of us mounted it, everyone carrying as much water as he could to throw on the fire running between the corners. I burst into my sister’s room and jarred her from her deep slumber: amazingly, she got up lazily, complaining that I never, ever let her savor her sleep. In any case, she helped us fill the buckets with water until we brought the fire under control.

We had begun to look for what caused the combustion when, in response to our neighbors’ call for help, the men of the fire brigade arrived. Opening up the balconies to inspect the furniture we had shoved onto them, they confirmed the fire had indeed died out. The disaster had come to an end—after dumbfounding us with fear.

But just as we sat down to regain our composure, the telephone rang. Here one must note the change of time and place—for our house in Abbasiya did not have a telephone. Hence we were in another home with other people altogether. On the phone was the owner of the building where we rented our apartment in Alexandria. He urged us to
come without delay, for fire had broken out in our place there. He reassured us that he had called in the fire brigade and they had subdued the blaze, but naturally our presence was nonetheless needed.

Immediately my wife and I got dressed and hurried to the station for the buses taking the Desert Road north. By this time, we were so distressed and confused that I suggested to my wife that we empty the flat of our belongings and turn it back to its owner, especially as there had already been an attempted robbery there.

But she told me to wait until we saw what had been lost—and what still remained.

W
e were assembled in some sort of great hall. Then some faces appeared that I was seeing for the first time, as well as others that I knew very well that belonged to my colleagues. We were awaiting the announcement of what Fate had decreed.

The results were revealed, and I was the winner: the prize was a new, modern-style villa. There followed a tumult of comments and congratulations. Many faces were unable to conceal their sadness. Quite a few said that it was a win, all right, but also a misfortune—for where would I get the money to furnish it and pay the necessary staff, as well as to cover the water and electrical bills, to maintain the swimming pool, the air conditioning, and so on?

In truth, my dream was still but a dream: I inspected the villa nearly every day, only to meet disappointment and distress. People took advantage of my lack of experience and persuaded me to sell the place at a particular price. For an hour or so, I gleefully rejoiced at what I had gained—until it dawned on me that I had been had.